


Small Town | Picnic

by beyondcanon



Series: Small Town [2]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2018-02-03 04:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1731326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyondcanon/pseuds/beyondcanon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana lies that she can't sing. Brittany takes her on a picnic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Town | Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of [my prompt challenge on Tumblr](http://beyondcanon.tumblr.com/tagged/ma%27s-prompt-challenge). Some stories will be posted on AO3; this is one of them.
> 
> The Small Town Series is designed to have standalone stories within the same verse. Each installment is complete in itself and requires no sequel. I'd suggest you subscribe to it if it strikes your fancy. ;)
> 
> PS. I'd really start with the first part, if I were you.

The week passes by much slower than you’d like.

You wake up at the usual time. You work just as much. You read, and you hang out with the younger workers sometimes.

There is no trace of her, though.

You hear someone saying she’s off in another city, taking care of business. You try not to think about it too hard.

You still look every time your boss passes by to make sure she isn’t with him. He congratulates you on your productivity once, and everyone makes fun of you for days.

You like him, at the end of the day. He’s attentive, professional, and he pays fairly, which is more than you can ask for. His hair is the same tone of bright yellow as his daughter’s.

You wonder if she’s going to talk to you again.

—

You see her on Friday, but she’s with her father and both supervisors and pays no attention to you.

They look serious and concerned, arguing with frowns on their faces. You’re thankful for not having that kind of responsibility, at least for now.

You watch her go. The way she moves is different; there’s a worried abruptness in her walk.

—

She shows up on Saturday.

You wouldn’t think she’d just come looking: you’re not well dressed, or even prepared for when she sits by your side, thighs brushing.

You’re just there, old denim overalls, old grey shirt, old acoustic guitar.

She’s beautiful in how she moves so careless, like she’s free in ways you will never be. You stare at her for a moment.

"Don’t stop." She says to you, placing a lock of hair behind your ear.

You look at her for a moment, weighing your options, before holding the guitar in position. She’s still looking at you expectantly; you clear your throat and start to play the first thing that comes to mind.

"Can you sing?" She asks, leaning in your direction.

"No," you lie.

She gives you a particular smile, canines showing. “I think you can.”

You fumble with a note and curse when her nails scratch your nape. She stops, still looking very amused. “I think you should.”

You’re rusty and you’re far from being on tune, but you sing anyway, quiet and slow. She hums with the music; she’s close enough for you to feel the faint smell of soap on her skin.

The final notes die, and she’s still staring at you. “That was nice.”

You groan. You know what nice looks like. “No, it wasn’t.” There was a time you sounded like clear river water, but that time has passed.

She ignores your comment. “I didn’t know you had music in you.”

"Only sometimes." You were never good enough.

You feel like kissing her again, but you don’t; you set your guitar on the ground, instead.

Your thighs brush again, and you wonder how she can be so nonchalant and relaxed, so accepting of the silence you envelop yourself in.

"We could have a picnic." She’s turned to you, providing the enticing view of her v neck. You still want to kiss her.

"I haven’t bought anything," you say.

She doesn’t budge. “I’ve got it. Just bring the guitar.”

—

You like the spot she’s chosen.

It’s green and quiet, and there are enough big, exuberant trees to make for a thick, refreshing shadow. Everything seems to be miles and miles away.

You lay on the faded tablecloth she stole from the main house. You’re surrounded by little sounds, like the tree branches rattling in the wind and small birds chirping.

You know by the way she breathes that she’s tense to her stomach. You decide to ask. “Are things okay?”

“Sure,” she tells you dismissively.

You scoot closer and turn to your right, facing her. “Are things okay?” You repeat, slow and calm, as you intertwine your fingers with hers.

She sighs and squeezes your hand, playing with your fingers. “Bank stuff.” You try not to stare at her lips. “Business stuff. Being a grown up sucks.”

You laugh. “It does.”

She puts both hands under her head, staring at the sky. “Dad wants me to take over the business part.”

Your hand rests on her stomach, running your thumb back and forth. It’s very satisfying to feel her muscles tensing under your palm. “What do you want?”

She looks at you. “I studied agronomy, not spreadsheets. Spreadsheets are boring.”

She runs her hand on your arm; the tips of her fingers tickle. You lean in a little closer. “They are.”

She has those amazing blue eyes.

She’s staring at your mouth. You shouldn’t, but you lower yourself to her, pressing your body on top of hers.

You lick your lips, enjoying the sharp breath she takes in anticipation. When you kiss her, slow and wet, it’s you who’s in control.

You nibble her upper lip, tracing your tongue over it afterwards, your palm pressed against her collarbone, pinning her down.  

She groans, low and raspy, and pulls you by the neck for another kiss. Her lips part to you and you explore her mouth, rubbing your tongues together deliciously.

You feel hot all over; she doesn’t make it any easier when she squeezes your waist and pulls you closer. You support your weight on your elbows, hovering over her, and press your hips down because it’s too easy.

She moans in sync with you, legs wrapping around your waist. So good. You kiss her, biting her lower lip and sucking on her tongue, and roll your hips again, a little harder this time.

You’re already breathless, and you keep rubbing against her because it’s just too good. She mumbles a harsh “don’t stop” between kisses, pulling your hair.

Oh, you have no intention of stopping.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” you say to her ear, resting your weight on your right elbow and palming her breast with your left hand.

She arches into you, grabbing your shirt. “Me too,” she breathes out, pulling you in for a kiss.

You kiss her, coaxing her tongue into your mouth and sucking on it, and you press your thigh between her legs as you squeeze her breast. “About me, eating you out?”

She whines. “Oh God.”

You place a wet kiss on her neck, biting the spot afterwards. “Fucking you with my tongue?” Your hand sneaks under her shorts, under her panties, and it’s no surprise she’s dripping.

You moan in unison when you touch her. She feels warm and slick and so hot; you just _have_ to run two fingers through her folds, spreading the wetness until you reach her clit.

“Fucking tease,” she says, biting her own lip. The sound of her cursing makes you even hotter, so you press harder, drawing tight circles, watching her frown and moan and close her eyes.

She’s bucking into your hand already, all sharp breaths and small moans. You take your time, working your thumb just enough to build the tension in her belly. Her nails sink in your arm, scratching down until it almost hurts.

“That’s what you wanted? A good fucking? To come on my fingers until you can’t take it no more?” You love the ache in your arm, the burn and the sweat dripping on your back.

She whines “yes” over and over again, nodding to your questions. You press a little harder, circles a little smaller, and it’s all it takes before she’s gasping and trembling, moaning your name louder than she should, collapsing under you.

She shivers all over.

“Oh God,” she lets out a shaky laugh, pulling you in for a wet kiss. “You’re amazing.”

You run your tongue over her upper lip before biting it. “I’m hungry.”

She laughs and points at the backpack. “Be my guest.” She closes her eyes. “I need a moment.”

You get to the wine first, because you have priorities.


End file.
